


Imperfect

by Persephone



Series: Sons of Troy [10]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Dark Character, M/M, Shame, Sibling Incest, Welts, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mind of Hector for one night. A dark place to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

Hector’s chariot barreled into the chaos of the battle, his horses charging hard and fast, their manes streaming behind them. His eyes were squinted into slits of granite as his driver skillfully propelled the chariot in.

All about them men wheeled and hacked away at each other, blood sprayed and screams rent the air. But his eyes were peeled on one man, and one man only. Agamemnon.

Hector was watching for a signal.

A moment later it came. A spear from Coon, a Trojan son and Hector’s most fearsome man-at-arms. Coon came at the Achaean king from behind and to the left, and the king stood no chance of seeing him, or avoiding the thrust.

The spear ripped into his forearm and a lesser man would have dropped in agony, but, as Hector’s team hurtled towards him, Agamemnon whipped his shield before him and his own spear appeared and he hacked Coon to the ground.

But his Trojan had done his work, and now it was Hector’s turn. Hector gripped the front of his chariot with the hand that held his spear, and in the other brandished the massive ten-layered bronze sphere of his ox-hide shield, and as they blazed past where Agamemnon’s horses bristled he leapt over the side of the chariot and flew out with a roar.

His shield before him, he speared for the king’s chest, but a soldier threw himself before his king. Hector’s spear ran through him and straight through a second soldier who had come up behind him. Agamemnon had leapt on his chariot and was fleeing fast, clutching his wounded arm.

Hector bellowed in rage and throwing his foot against the first soldier’s chest, shoved both of them backwards, off his spear. He looked up, but it was too late, the Achaean king was long gone. And the Achaeans warriors, realizing they now outnumbered the mighty Trojan, and looking for the immortal honor of taking him down, rushed in.

Hector flung down his shield, threw his spear into his left hand, and reached for the sword slung across his back.

**********

Hector released a deep breath.

He stood in the midst of their encampment on the fields outside the walls of Troy and by the light of a nearly full moon, pierced his gaze into the distance, spearing the intensity of his hatred at his enemy camped scornfully on _his_ city’s doorstep. Scarring _his_ city’s beautiful beaches.

He was still in full armor, arms folded tight across his chest and legs braced wide apart. His helmet lay at his feet.

Nearly all the leather straps on his right arm guard had been sliced in the onslaught he had fought out of that day, and he would need new ones before they went out again in the morning.

Agamemnon had escaped to fight another day, but not so the Achaeans who had attacked Hector. Troy and her allies had fought well that day, for Odysseus and Diomedes had both also been badly wounded and fled the battlefield.

But darkness of night forever forced respite in their fighting. In silence he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He burned so strongly with the desire to keep fighting through the night and into the day, and right through the night that followed, that it was difficult to make himself remove his armor.

Slowly he brought his gaze back to the surrounding tents and fires and pits with skewered roasts on them, and the men resting quietly. The men were tired, their battles over for the day.

But for him, it was not so easy.

He lived in a world where the battling was constant, inside and out, and the one outside was simpler, even preferable. For though it gave him wounds and gashes and drew blood, it still left him with his sanity intact.

The one inside, however…

Truly the gods must hate him that by the hand of just one man he could be in such a place of torment. And that that man should be his own brother…

Hector became aware that there was someone standing behind him. From the breathing he knew it was Acamas, a prince and leader of his Thracian ally force. And a good friend.

Hector made no movements acknowledging his presence, knowing Acamas would speak when he was ready.

“A man your height must see much,” Acamas said eventually.

“I do not see enough broken Achaean bodies.”

“That is because they have carried them off to their ships,” Acamas chuckled. But Hector was not in a laughing mood tonight. Tonight, he was spoiling for a fight.

Acamas moved away and returned to the circle of men sitting around the fire behind them. Hector looked after him, then followed. He left his helmet on the ground where he had discarded it, having no desire to pick it up. Someone would see that it wound up in his tent.

A stool was produced for him, and he sat down next to Acamas and stared into the fire. The soldiers were breaking into wine vats and skins, and talking in low voices.

“Our prince is a match for Ares himself on the battlefield,” a Trojan lieutenant murmured contentedly.

A Thracian soldier nodded vigorously. “Bravery unsurpassed by the gods themselves!”

 _Bravery,_ Hector thought, anger slowly heating its way through his body. Every day outside the city walls he fought bravely, and every night behind its walls he lost hard.

Hector felt the muscles in his thighs pull, and he cursed every one of those gods. For letting his brother torture him, for leaving him alone to constantly fight for control and power, for making him suffer his humiliation night after night…

But the Thracian was not done with his praises. “I would have never believed a spear could be thrust through two men at once, unless Heracles wielded it.”

“But what was that compared to what he did to the captains?”

The Thracian frowned. “I saw no more, as I was forced to—”

The lieutenant snorted. “Then you did not see Prince Hector fighting, you only saw him at play!”

The men laughed loudly, coming alive at the prospect of gory battle stories. Acamas looked at Hector and grinned. But Hector just stared into the yellow flames.

Whether by Helios’s sun, or Hecate’s moon, or an absence of both, he wanted to keep fighting in the fields so that he would not have to face another night with Paris. And yet he would smash anything that prevented him from going into the city tonight.

He needed to burn the night away with that body that he dreamed of conquering, subduing, of subjugating. With those eyes he could not look away from. With those mind games he knew he was not equipped to play.

“For what would you say if you had seen him take off the heads of _three_ Achaean captains, and kick the bodies to the ground even before they knew they were dead?”

A chorus of approvals from the men. The Thracian’s jaw hung open, and Acamas slowly shook his head in awe. “Asaeus first, Autonous after, then Opites, Dolops…”

“And five more,” the lieutenant shook his head in accord. “Nine Achaean captains in all, and Prince Hector ploughed through them like—”

“Like a killing-squall,” someone finished.

“Like the west wind through clouds,” another soldier added.

“Like a lion on dogs!” the Thracian threw in, and the men laughed and clanged their goblets at his poor attempt. That almost brought a tiny smile to Hector’s lips.

But he was too tense, too irritated. He was done fighting out here. He was ready to get behind the city walls and fight Paris.

“It was a sight to behold,” the lieutenant was saying. “And no doubt they each now regret the day they chose to leave their fathers’ lands to wage a war for a woman, no matter how beautiful.”

Hector’s fists tightened involuntarily, but he made no effort to calm himself, because he was not one to fool himself. If it happened all over, he knew this time he would give Paris a thousand Helens, stand before ten thousand armies to defend that offering, then wait for his torment to begin all over.

But even as he did so he would punish Paris every step of the way. He would hold him down, and tie him up, and bend him over, and watch him beg. Because goddess or no, Paris was _his_ to control.

The lieutenant lifted his goblet. “To Prince Hector. Great in deeds, greater in thought for his fellow soldier and ally, and greatest in kindness and nobility. Truly, by the gods, a perfect son of Troy.”

Cheers went up.

Hector listened as his blood heated and flowed through every crevice of his flaws.

The Thracian held up a wine skin to him, and Hector’s eyes flicked from the man’s hand to his face. The man hesitated, then shrank back. Hector knew since he was a stranger from Thrace he did not know better, but he didn’t care.

“Our prince abstains from drinking during breaks in battle,” the lieutenant supplied.

Acamas shook his head. “Drink some wine, Prince Hector. It _will_ ease your mind.”

“You know I will not.”

“It helps,” his friend insisted in a low voice.

Hector said nothing. He knew what comfort it provided soldiers during their night breaks. But no such thing was meant for him. There was only one manner in which he could achieve rest for a night… but it had never once given him peace of mind.

He silently cursed himself, and stood up.

“Acamas, I must go into the city tonight.” He clasped the other man’s shoulder briefly and then turned to the circle of men. “Thank you, brothers.”

He stepped out of the circle and began to walk away.

Acamas stood up and followed him. “Before we meet with the captains? You usually wait until after.”

Hector kept his voice steady. “I will return before too long.”

“Alright. Let me walk with you to your tent, at least.” Acamas took his elbow. “We have plenty to discuss this night after you return, for we have the advantage while the Achaean lords lie wounded and helpless. Sarpedon has already formulated a plan for us to lead a small team to finish off at least one of those men. That would deal a heavy blow indeed to the enemy.”

Hector tried to listen. But all he could say in response was, “I will return soon.”

They had now reached the part of the field encampment with Hector’s tent. Not far in the distance was Paris’s tent, which stood somewhat away from the rest. Hector tried not to, but glanced in its direction anyway. It must be empty, of course, for at the moment Paris was in the city—

Paris was inside his tent. There were slivers of lights emanating from around the entrance and at its base.

He stopped walking and Acamas stopped talking. The other man followed Hector’s transfixed gaze.

“Do you wish to speak with your brother?”

With effort this time, Hector kept his expression neutral, and nodded. “He has just come from the city. Perhaps with word from my father.”

“I understand,” Acamas smiled slightly. “The night is still young. Sarpedon and the others can wait. We will hold council later.”

And with a look at Paris’s tent, Acamas walked away.

Hector forced his legs to move. He stood before the entrance and clenched his fist, trying to remember things he should and should not say to Paris. Then he pushed the flap open and walked in.

Near the middle of the tent Paris sprawled on a recliner, facing the entrance, and looking as though he had been sitting like that for sometime. He had one foot up on the seat, his leg bent at the knee, with his arms folded loosely across his chest.

His body gleamed in the torchlight. His golden skin, his rich dark curls, his long, leanly muscled arms, everything shone as if his skin tempered a setting sun.

He looked so beautiful Hector wanted to run away. But he remained standing at the entrance, thighs and groin and chest aching deeply. Sometimes, especially after brutal, savage days like this on the battlefield, a part of him wondered whether Paris was real.

Could he not simply forget himself, let himself go, and pull that body under him and press himself all over it? Would it not be the purest pleasure after a day like this to feel every inch of Paris, hot and slick and firm, writhing under him, running his hands over his back, rubbing his face against his? To let Paris touch him everywhere and anywhere he pleased…

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Paris purred from where he sat. He stirred slowly.

Hector’s heart slammed in his chest, but he held himself as still and as stiffly as he could.

“I have brought you treats from the city,” Paris smiled at him, standing up. He moved towards a wooden table at one corner of the tent. “Fruits and sweet meats, and though I know you do not drink wine out here on the fields, still I thought—”

“Come with me, Alexandros,” Hector interrupted shortly, and stepped back out of the tent. He heard Paris follow and felt his hands start to tremble. He _wanted_ so badly.

“Father sends his love,” Paris continued from directly behind him. “As does Andromache. And little Astyanax is growing bigger with every sunrise.”

Hector said nothing. He knew where his father and wife and son stood in his life, what they meant to him. He was sure of each of them. It was the man following behind him that was the dilemma.

“Get on your horse and follow me,” he instructed. He went to a line of tethered horses nearby and untied one. He didn’t know who’s horse it was, but it would do.

There was an area beyond the fields, but not quite as far as the beaches. A no man’s land. The ground was grassy if slightly rocky, but they would be alone. Paris’s tent would suffocate him if he stayed in there tonight.

As Hector dismounted at their destination he kept his back turned to Paris. He stood staring at the almost perfect circle of the moon, its illumination bright enough to see the grassy hills surrounding them.

His mind was a mass of confusion. Acamas and his captains waited, and for what? So that he could rut with his brother…

Hector’s cock pulsed hard, beginning to push against the skirt of his armor. He stopped his thoughts and took a deep breath.

He could hear Paris moving behind him. He turned around to find Paris on his knees on an expanse of leopard fur he had spread on the ground. He was smiling at Hector.

Hector grew so hard he could not make himself walk. Paris held his eyes and pulled on the rope around his waist. It unraveled and fell, but his robe only parted down the front.

“Would you like to satiate your battle lust, Hector?” he asked quietly.

Hector stopped himself before he nodded. But Paris saw his slight movement and smiled confidently.

He leaned down his left side and when he straightened he had a short horse whip in his hand. He held the handle in one hand and extended the cord into the other. It stretched across his chest. He raised it and hooked it over the back of his neck, and then pulled his robe off him.

Even under the pale light of the moon his magnificent golden body gleamed. And his cock was already sliding wetly against his stomach.

“Come here… and whip me.”

Hector’s heart jerked his entire body, and his face flushed mercilessly. His mind began to shut down under a hunger that threatened to cripple him and the thought of doing that to Paris made him want to fist himself until he exploded. He had never done anything like it, but he wanted to. Badly. But he did not know how to do such a thing without hurting Paris…

“Do not tell me what to do, Xandros,” he snarled to stall. Then he realized he had moved and was now standing on the fur blanket right next to Paris. And now he regretted that he was still fully armored. He removed everything fast.

Paris let the whip drop from his neck and laid down on his back. He stretched himself languidly, his arms over his head. Hector tried not to stare, but he watched the lean muscles flexing under the golden skin and wanted to kiss them…

He knelt and picked up the whip. Paris was watching him, but Hector watched his body. And he continued watching in a daze as he trailed the cord along Paris’s stomach. Paris purred, and arched, eyes closed.

Hector’s breaths rasped out of him, his nostrils flaring. Maybe tonight he would win…

He straddled Paris, and Paris pushed his naked groin upwards against Hector's own nakedness. Hector placed a hand on his stomach and pressed him back down. Then he flicked his wrist holding the whip. The cord lashed against Paris’s stomach, and Paris convulsed with a sound Hector had never heard before, his fingers digging into the fur above his head.

Hector moved lower and turned him over so that he now straddled the back of Paris’s thighs. He was not going to let Paris see his pleasure.

He pressed Paris’s thighs together with his knees, and began to whip him. He did it slowly, panting deeply through his open mouth as he listened to Paris’s delicious, guttural purring. His eyes strained from their unblinking watch of him sweating and glistening and writhing beautifully under him.

But if he did it one more time, he was going to shoot all over Paris's back. He let the whip drop from his fingers and moved farther down Paris’s legs and sat back on his heels, breathing harshly.

Paris turned himself over and slowly laid down on his back, gasping softly. Hector’s breath caught.

“Does it hurt?” he asked despite himself.

“Oh _yes,_ ” Paris sighed. Hector felt himself blushing at the pleasure in his brother’s voice.

“You know I have no wish to see you hurt,” he murmured.

Paris propped himself up on his elbows and shook his wet curls out of his face. “I am not hurt.” Then he laughed softly.

“I have suffered much more painful hurts in battle, and none so exquisite.” His eyes slid down Hector’s body, lingered on his dripping cock, and came back up. Hector felt his skin slowly begin to tighten. “Kiss me, Hector.”

Hector’s heart pumped. He growled, “No.”

Paris’s demand had returned him to his senses. What madness had caused him to do such a thing with Paris? Wouldn’t the welts show in the morning?

And with thought of the morning his mind clanged over Acamas, and his waiting captains, and his duties calling, and Troy. Was this the enemy their great warrior had been called upon to subdue? It was time for him to leave.

But he remained straddling Paris, dread and anticipation warring inside him. He had given Paris a firm no for an answer, but Paris had been very clear about what he wanted… His heart pumped harder, knowing their fight was only about to begin.

Paris’s eyes bore into him. “Then I shall kiss you…”

The heat inside him flared, but he was ready for Paris…

He stared down coldly at him. “You would dare touch me without my permission?”

Paris’s eyes widened and Hector calmed even more. He had established control. “Answer me,” he said quietly. “Would you?”

“No, Hector.”

Hector smiled down at him. But it wasn’t a friendly smile. Paris shifted slowly.

“Please,” Paris whispered.

Hector slowly shook his head, elated. Paris lowered himself onto his back, gasping slightly, and watched him. Then his arm moved slightly. Hector’s heart pumped even faster. He knew Paris was incapable of self-restraint, but he would not dare…

It became a fascinating thing to watch. He would wreck Paris if Paris disobeyed him. But Paris would burn up with desire if he did not get his way…

Paris writhed in a state of warm indecision. His body moved slowly, almost as if unconscious of itself, and he watched Hector as if weighing the consequences of disobedience.

The moment tightened and tension suffocated the air between them. Hector no longer breathed, he was so mesmerized.

Then Paris’s eyes liquefied and his lids slid half closed as his arms moved and lowered down his body, down past his stomach. Hector’s eyes followed, and his nostrils flared wildly as he realized where Paris’s hands were going.

He could tell Paris not to touch himself… but he had never wanted to invade that side of Paris’s mind. Aside from which, his mouth would not work. And Paris’s hands were already at their destination.

Paris used both hands on himself, immodestly locking eyes with Hector and moaning wantonly. He slid one hand over his tip, then down the thick shaft, while the other slowly moved his cock back and forth. Hector’s eyes strained as he watched it swell. It was a beautiful sight, making his mouth water and his groin pound.

The muscles in this thighs and stomach began to pull. He breathed carefully, watching that thick length glisten under his brother’s hands. He rarely tasted Paris because when he did it made him feel dangerous, but he acutely remembered what Paris’s slick flesh tasted like…

 _A perfect son of Troy…_

Paris was whispering again, and now one hand had slid farther down and cupped his balls. He circled his thumb and forefinger at their base and tightened gently. Hector watched the skin grow taut and rounder, and began to sweat.

He must leave and return to his encampment, his armies…

His nails dug into the fur under them, anchoring him in place as his cock pulsed steadily into a painful erection.

“Kiss me, Hector,” he moaned plaintively, and his legs pulled up and spread, and he hooked the backs of his knees over Hector’s thighs. “Any way you want…”

And Hector did. He slid his hand under Paris’s head and pulled his head up. He was rough but did not care, if it would afford him control. Paris opened his mouth, moaning with approval, and relaxed into Hector’s hand so that Hector bore his weight.

Hector clenched a fistful of his hair and licked into his mouth, his mind screaming, _Do not let his tongue into your mouth._ Paris’s tongue thrust and Hector twisted his head to the side and licked across Paris’s jaw. Paris’s frustrated growl immediately turned into softly exhaled moans as he pushed his face into Hector’s mouth.

He felt Paris’s arms move faster as his hands stroked over himself. The movements shook his body against Hector’s and Hector’s cock pounded for attention. He groaned into Paris’s open mouth, licking the wet lips, slippery with Hector’s own saliva. Paris began to pant into his mouth in short fast breaths.

“Hector! Hector!” he gasped over and over and so desperately that Hector lifted his head and glared down at him.

 _“What?”_ he snarled, and jerked his grip on Paris's hair. Paris cried out sharply and began to climax.

Hector spasmed as Paris’s seed spurted and hit his cock again and again, and before he was through wondering whether Paris had done it intentionally, he felt Paris’s hands on his own cock.

He dropped Paris’s head and his hand flew down and gripped both Paris’s wrists together. Paris froze, holding himself up off his back as Hector pulled his hands away. To let Paris take control of him like that…

“Let me kiss your—”

“Of course not,” Hector spat.

“Give me what I want, Hector,” Paris whispered languorously, propping himself on his elbows. And then added almost as an afterthought, “Please.”

“No.” _Oh gods, yes._

Paris bit down on his lip, and continued eyeing Hector. For moments neither of them moved. Paris’s lip was beginning to turn white where he bit down on it, and he now looked frustrated in the extreme.

“Just a taste…” he said, his voice low, firm and almost-warning.

“Stop arguing with me, Alexandros,” Hector grated, and sat back on his heels.

Paris let out a sigh and relaxed his body, his legs sliding down Hector’s thighs. Hector's muscles flexed in response.

He was acutely aware that his erection was streaked with Paris’s seed and with every ounce of his willpower resisted reaching down and rubbing it over every inch of his cock.

But he pulsed insistently, and as if reading his thoughts, Paris’s eyes dropped and he stared, licking wetness off his lips. Hector’s hunger sharpened, realizing it was his saliva Paris licked off… and that at this moment Paris was on his back before him, subdued.

Hector burned. _Give him what he wants, he is the only thing alive in your world…_

But he remained still. He refused to give in, to always lose…

Paris was watching his face now, and his expression had changed. The look of frustration was gone, and he now looked unworried, smiling. But it was not a harmless smile.

“But I adore it,” he protested, his obsidian eyes raking over Hector’s erection. “And I want it.”

Hector could only glare at him. Knowing he was desperately needed elsewhere, why couldn’t he simply _leave?_ Instead his body throbbed and pounded as if he was already inside Paris.

“Just kneel astride my face…” Paris whispered reassuringly.

“Xandros…” Hector warned, but his hips jerked slightly in response, and Paris’s legs contracted around his.

“I shall simply lie here, and not move…”

“ _Shut_ up, Alexandros.”

“And you can… be cruel to my mouth…”

The muscles around Hector’s groin seized and he realized he was going to climax even before he could get to Paris’s mouth.

But Paris moved fast, and had already slid down between Hector’s spread knees. Hector fell forward and managed to brace himself on his hand, and clamped his other hand on the back of Paris’s head. He had mere seconds at most.

But suddenly Paris’s fingers were around the base of his cock, firmly pressing down, and his other hand was circling his balls, pulling down gently.

“Breathe, Hector,” Paris encouraged softly.

And Hector found himself taking a deep slow breath. His body shuddered once, but it began to relax away from his climax, allowing his tingling pleasure to expand throughout his body. Heat rose from his chest and suffused his face as humiliation washed over him at what had almost happened.

How he wished for control. What he would not give to break Paris’s power—

Paris was licking him, sucking gently against the skin, opening his mouth and sucking in one and then the other, and Hector forgot everything he was thinking and concentrated on not making sounds that would further testify to his defeat.

His fingers dug deeper into Paris’s curls but he did not push his head, he wanted Paris to do whatever he wished to him. At his own desired pace.

Paris’s mouth slid farther up and the tip of his tongue pressed along the underside of Hector’s cock. Then he began to lick its entire length with long firm licks, from its base to right underneath its head, moaning as if Hector was covered with honey.

“Xandros,” Hector breathed so harshly his throat hurt. He tried not to speak out loud and say things that he would later feel ashamed of, but he could not stop himself. “I—I fear I am… going to die…”

He heard Paris’s soft laughter and his head heated. Then Paris was sucking gently on the flesh under the head of his cock, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue against it.

“Stop… stop…” Hector pleaded weakly, before Paris pushed his lips down over the tip and all the way down to the base, swallowing him entirely. Hector knew he was big, but suddenly Paris’s throat was opening and Hector felt his cock slide in deep.

Hector’s grip locked in Paris’s hair but only to support himself now, not Paris. He _was_ dying… and whatever else he said, he prayed he would not open his mouth and beg.

Paris’s mouth was moving steadily, his lips pressing firmly up and down Hector’s length, his tongue swirling, then he was slowly dropping backwards unto his back.

Even as he resented Paris’s control of him, Hector carefully lowered himself with his brother’s mouth as though they were one being.

He rested on both forearms and looked down, gasping wildly as he thrust his hips into Paris’s face, down, and then pulling out hard against the searing suction of Paris’s mouth.

Paris’s hand was around his base but Hector struggled to be careful. He had no desire to hurt Paris…

But Paris was writhing under him, as if impatient. He gripped Hector’s hip and pulled forward and Hector lost his restraint.

His head burned and his breaths hissed out as he looked down the length of his body and watched his cock plunge in and out of Paris’s mouth.

It was too hot inside, too tight. Paris’s mouth was a whirlpool, sucking so hard Hector felt his soul draining. And he was dreaming, dreaming of tasting Paris like this. Of lying beneath him and letting him use his mouth like this. He wanted to suck every drop of Paris’s essence, to feel him ram into his throat and let him eat him.

Then Hector was begging. He did not know what he was saying, but Paris seemed to understand, and he pulled his head back and let Hector slid out of his mouth. And he was turning over, pushing back, now on his hands and knees.

In one movement Hector sat up on his knees and grabbed Paris’s hips and pushed in. He cried out, and did not stop himself because there was nothing left to hide from.

Paris had won as he always did, and no god or war could have pried him out of Paris’s body. He needed this more than he needed to breathe. And Troy could forever abandon hope in its protector if he was denied this madness.

Yet his mind shouted at him that this madness was already denying Troy its protector. For Acamas and his captains waited in vain, and tonight there would be no victory for his city, only for Paris.

He shuddered continually, his body spasming as he tried to last. He leaned forward, glazed eyes raking in a daze over the faint welts already appearing across Paris’s back. His cock swelled even more at the sight.

He sank his hand into Paris’s curls and grabbed, and pulled, trying helplessly to pull Paris back into his thrusts, to pull him until he fused into Hector and incinerated him from the inside out.

Maybe if there was nothing left of him but cinder then this burning would stop and the war between them would end, and his mind would find a moment’s peace.

Paris’s head fell back into Hector’s pull, and his back arched, pushing him harder into Hector’s groin. Hector stared at Paris’s body rocking under him, his tongue tingling with the need to lick those welts, to make them wet and warm under his lips and suck against them.

“Deeper… deeper…” Paris gasped in time with his thrusts, “…please… brother…”

“Stop your shameless _begging,_ ” Hector grated desperately.

But his face had already flooded with heat. At Paris’s devastating wantonness, at his use of that word _brother_ instead of his name when he had Hector inside him. He growled and slammed into Paris. The gods themselves did it, he thought fiercely. But it could only be a mortal failing to take such lustful pleasure in the _thought_ alone…

Paris was keening, moaning as though he had forgotten how to speak, and when he slowly wailed, _“Make it… go… deeper…!”_ Hector was thankful he was already on his knees.

He stifled a sound he feared was a whimper as Paris pounded back against him, and the mind that was no longer his to control transported him with the goddess… and he drifted on a nightmare in the form of a ship set sail on the Aegean, with Troy burning behind him and Paris writhing under him…

What was left of his mind rioted against Paris’s power, but instead his knees spread and he sat back on his heels, pulling Paris up with him. Paris still leaned forward away from him but his buttocks sat firmly in his groin, and he groaned at the perfect heat of it. He gripped him by the shoulders and slammed hard into him, hypnotized by his whip marks.

Then Paris leaned back, dropping his head, and turned his face into the warmth of Hector’s neck. His hands gripped Hector’s thighs, and he began to grind himself mercilessly against Hector. Hector helplessly held onto Paris’s shoulders, feeling as though his groin muscles were melting, so that he could no longer thrust, but only grind back.

Paris had began to wail endlessly, the heart stopping sound reverberating heatedly against Hector’s neck. Hector groaned deep in his chest, his body pulling tight and his mind falling to pieces knowing Paris’s end was near, that _his_ end was near. Then Paris was spurting hard, clenched down on him, and the friction was too much and Hector was climaxing violently, convulsively, with no control whatsoever.

**********

Acamas was already making his way towards Hector’s horse as it trotted into the open field. He didn’t say anything until the horse came to a stop right next to him. Then he slowly came up and took hold of the bridle. Hector felt his eyes boring into him as he dismounted.

“You did not come to the council last night,” his friend said in a low voice.

Hector unstrapped his gear but kept his eyes on his horse, acutely aware of Paris dismounting a few feet away.

They had fought each other all night. By the time Hector had thought he might be wearing Paris out, it was nearly daylight and they had been forced to leave the open field and return to the encampment. Paris’s eyes had pleaded for him to sleep the remaining night hours with him in his tent, but Hector had quickly left. It had been easy to simply spur his horse and have _it_ turn away from those eyes.

Paris now walked around both their horses and came and stood beside Hector, who made no moves acknowledging his presence. He was dressed in full armor and carrying his sword and shield strapped on his back as Hector did.

Hector remembered he had begun carrying his own weapons like that because he had seen how fast Paris could pull out his sword. He sighed silently. Paris was a coward, but that did not mean he was unskilled. As Hector relearned almost every night.

Acamas leaned in closer and Hector realized he hadn’t responded to his query. “And how did it proceed? Did we send in the strike force?”

“No,” Acamas said quietly. “None of your captains or allies wished to take such a decisive risk without your presence or say so. We had expected you to lead the team.”

Hector stopped and finally looked at Acamas. His friend looked baffled, and slightly frustrated. At that moment Hector’s admiration for him knew no bounds, for he knew Acamas was indeed very frustrated by his failure to attend the council. But the man was almost always temperate, preferring to discuss rather than shout or give in to angry words.

Acamas returned his look, watching Hector’s face, his curiosity growing. “We likely could have killed at least two of their most powerful lords. It would have been an easy victory. A much needed victory for Troy.”

Hector’s jaw clenched, and he turned back to his horse. He loosened the straps securing his shield, struggling to control his self-deprecation. What excuses could he give Acamas that he had not tried and discarded on himself.

Tense silence stretched between them.

Acamas slowly looked away from Hector, to Paris. Hector pretended not to look as one corner of Paris’s mouth lifted as he smiled slowly at Acamas, his secret in his eyes.

The other man stared back. At first his eyes were full of curiosity. Then they changed and widened with confusion, and a little fear. Paris’s smile widened, then he bowed slightly and turned and walked in the direction of the lined troops.

Acamas dragged his eyes away from Paris’s back and stared at Hector.

Hector looked away. “He is my brother…” he said tonelessly, and left everything else unsaid. He did not even know what that was meant to mean.

There was silence for a few moments, the only sounds those of Hector strapping on his gear. His sword across his back, his shield over that, and lastly, his helmet. His spears were in his chariot, farther down the lines of men.

When Hector was done, Acamas pointed to his arm guard. It was the one with the slashed straps. His friend said in a steady voice, “Did you not go into the city, after all?”

Hector still did not meet his gaze. And he said nothing.

“Are you ready for the enemy?” Acamas finally asked quietly.

Hector turned to him and looked at him with steely eyes. The other man looked steadily back. Hector nodded. He was more ready. He had had a night he was not soon to forget, and someone was going to pay.

 _End_


End file.
